This is a guest post by Cynwise, the fantastic author of Cynwise’s Battlefield Manual. This is her take on a meeting between Cynwise, the mercenary warlock and the Headmaster of Stormwind University.

“You can’t be serious,” Arrens said, astonished.

The woman across the table raised an eyebrow at his response. “You knew the price would be high, Headmaster,” she said quietly, carefully looking around Cantrips and Crows to see who was listening. “Consider it a cost of keeping Stormwind University’s doors open.”

Arrens recovered his composure quickly.  “Ambassador, surely we can find some other means of payment? Access to our magical research facilities, perhaps?”

The woman cut him off. “You and I both have access to the Mage Academy in Stormwind and the collected works of the Kirin Tor. You seriously think I need your resources?” She looked at Arrens, amused. “You need someone with the King’s ear to deliver a favorable report on your University. But he has a certain idea of why your University was chartered.”

Arrens recited it from memory: “to train the next generation of leaders to defend the Alliance from all enemies, be it Horde, Burning Legion, or threats unknown.” Briarthorn had particularly liked that passage.

Apparently, so had the King.

“Don’t mistake the King’s intentions, Headmaster. He is an ardent supporter of higher learning – look no further than his patronage of the Clerics of Northshire for evidence of that,” said the woman. “But he also likes getting what he’s paid for. Deceit makes him short-tempered.”

Arrens nodded slowly, thinking. The slender barmaid, Narisa, brought over a second round of drinks, nimbly sliding around the hulking Shaaroon as if the Felguard didn’t exist.  She must deal with worse things than a leashed Felguard down here, Arrens thought. As she set the drinks down, Arrens wondered what set of circumstances had brought a blood elf of Quel’Thalas to this place and time, serving ale to two warlocks in a dank tavern in the sewers of a floating magical city. A floating city that was, once, Arrens’ only home. Home.  There was the key.

“The Clerics of Northshire are an interesting lot, are they not, Cynwise?” he asked as she took a drink.

She swallowed and laughed. “Interesting is one of several words that comes to mind, yes, Headmaster.”

“And you are from there, correct?  I can hear some traces of the accent.”

“Yes, my family is from there. We were displaced by the wars but my parents moved us back when the Brotherhood returned,” Cynwise replied. “That seems a long time ago, but it really wasn’t.”

Arrens slowly sipped his ale. He was still judicious about drinking after … after that night with Rosie. No time for distractions, he thought, pushing those memories away.

“One of the benefits of being Headmaster is that I have had the privledge of working with the Abbot. Very nice man, though his views on warlocks are somewhat … limited,” Arrens said.

“Mmmm,” answered Cynwise, taking a long drink.

“So limited, in fact, that I wonder how any warlock could come out of Northshire.”

“I suppose ‘through the south gate’ isn’t going to satisfy your curiosity, Headmaster?” Cynwise replied. Arrens smile was his only response. For the first time since he had sat down, he felt in control of this conversation. It was a good feeling.

Cynwise raised her eyebrow again. “I see,” she said, in a tone that showed she wasn’t fooled by sudden shift in conversation.  “Well, for politeness’ sake, let’s just say I had a disagreement with the Mage Academy about appropriate areas of study.”

“Raising demons?”

“Oh, not at first. Shadow magic was what got me in trouble; I didn’t think anything should be off-limits for study.  The prohibition on a school of magic made no sense to me, so I, uh, broke it.”

“I see.  For me it was demons,” Arrens said, gesturing over at Shaaroon.  “Using the agents of the Burning Legion against itself appeals to me, even if there are … social … drawbacks.”

Cynwise laughed and drank again.  “That’s a polite way to put it,” she said, after she finished drinking.

“I imagine that you encounter not only that stigma of being a warlock, but the added one of being a mercenary as well?” Arrens asked. 

“Only among the civilian population who doesn’t know me, Headmaster,” Cynwise replied with a wry smile.  “The military knows the work I’ve done.  Their respect is sufficient — especially since they pay my bills.”

Arrens pressed on.  “I have found, however, that people are willing to move past their opinions when discussing the University.  The Abbot and I meet on a regular basis now, and we are going to start a guest lecture exchange with some of the Brotherhood.  The House of Nobles also has expressed interest in our work, with some members even going so far as enrolling some of their children in classes.  It’s quite a status symbol, from what little I understand,” he said, watching the impact of his words on his fellow warlock.  Anger, a little bit of avarice, and… something else.

Cynwise’s eyes narrowed.  “You’re dropping names, Headmaster,” she said flatly.

“Yes, I am,” Arrens said, smiling genially.  “But it’s because I don’t think you’ve thought through the position fully.  This is not about making a pretense of military training to satisfy the king.  If I wanted that, I could have gone to the Pig and Whistle and picked any of the old warhorses there to come give lectures that my students would sleep through,” he said, finally letting the passion back into his voice.  “But that’s not good enough.  We are training the next generation of leaders at Stormwind University.  Yes, some of them are nobles, but we don’t discriminate in our teaching based on class.  And people are starting to see the quality of the education we provide.”  He stood up.

“I can’t pay you your fee, Ambassador,” Arrens said, his voice now carrying across the tavern, “not without jeopardizing the quality of my University.  I am sorry.”  Startled patrons looked up at the warlock as he pushed in his chair to leave.  “My offer is open for a day.  The only question I have left for you,” he said, looking directly at Cynwise, “is how much of a mercenary are you?” 

They stayed there, for a moment, those words hanging between the two warlocks. 

Then Arrens and Shaaroon walked proudly out of the subterranean tavern, not waiting for an answer.  He’d made his pitch.  Best not to oversell it.

Cynwise sat at that table for some time, letting the anger pass.  There were no snickers or whispered derisive comments, not from this crowd; they knew better than to provoke stung gladiators.  She finished her drink and ordered another.  As Narisa brought it, Cynwise thanked her, then raised her cowl over her head, shrouding her face from the room.

“What do you think, Helola?” she whispered, after Narisa had left.

The invisible succubus leaned in close.  “The children,” she hissed, demonic malice in her voice.  “Ripe and ready.  Through them, the parents.”

“Yes, yes,” Cynwise said, irritated now.  “Obviously the children are the key.  No, I mean of him.”

“I’d do him,” she said, leaning back and examining her nails.

“You’re useless, you know that?” Cynwise muttered, dismissing her back to her native plane with a quick gesture.  She stood up, placed a few gold coins on the table as a tip, and left to go talk to her banker.